This article appeared
in Volume 18: No. 1 of the Orient
Express magazine.
I HAD A FARM IN AFRICA
HRH Princess Michael of Kent recalls how, as a teenager, above,
she adopted a disguise to embark upon an African adventure that saw
her travel from Cape Town to Mozambique by bus.
Well, in all honesty, it wasn’t mine, but belonged to my father
and stepmother Rosemarie—although I often pretended it was
mine when the phrase became famous through the film Out of Africa.
The farm was in Portuguese Mozambique, in an area called Maforga,
near the main road linking Umtali in Rhodesia, and Beira on the Mozambique
coast. Cecil Rhodes, in his great wisdom, when carving out the large
colony which would bear his name, failed to lay claim to any coastline,
so Rhodesians used Portuguese Beira as their nearest port.
I visited many farms in Africa and I can say with certainty that
ours was the most beautiful I know. This was due largely to Rosemarie’s
flair and taste, and my father’s gift for landscaping. He had
another great skill—one much revered in Africa. Reibi (as he
was known) could find water almost anywhere, and with his bare hands.
He scorned the use of divining rods and just walked around with his
hands outstretched—then announced: “Dig here.” This
always worked, and delighted his labourers, who already considered
this giant of a man larger than life in every way. But it was the
cause of even more joy among neighbours and friends who needed water
for irrigation as droughts came all too regularly. They say the gift
of water divining passes from father to daughter and daughter to
son. Sadly I could not even inspire the rod to tremble when standing
next to the swimming pool. So much for that theory.
On the farm we had no electricity and no telephone. For light we
used paraffin lamps, pumped up energetically each day, which, when
lit, would hiss gently all evening. These lamps would perch on thick
bamboo stands under large parchment shades illustrated with black
and white prints of equestrian haute école. For music, we
would take a battery from one of the Land Rovers, attach that to
the wireless and listen to the BBC World Service. I learnt to be
careful when opening the bonnet of the Land Rover in the evenings—it
was not unusual for a snake to slide in and curl up underneath, falling
asleep on the warm engine. As for sewing—I was always making
things—there was the treadle Singer sewing machine. Hot water?
No problem—a large boiler was kept fed all day long with dried
elephant dung, and the refrigerator had a gas cylinder. What vegetables
and fruit we could not grow we would buy locally. Because of the
tsetse fly in the area, we could not keep domestic animals, so two
of our farm workers were employed as “hunters”. We feasted
on small game—every kind of deer, game birds and guinea fowl.
The kitchen was a small detached hut where the cooking was done
over an open fire. I cannot recall better fare or more elegant service
(yes, in white gloves), anywhere.
Life at 17 on a remote farm in East Africa was an agreeable challenge.
I was on my “gap year” and rejoiced in learning to make
soap from avocados, marmalade from our oranges, helping out at the
local mission school, and examining the children brought to our evening “clinic”—though
mostly the workers’ wives just wanted to socialise. Lice removal
was a daily task and our “medsin” for all else was an
aspirin. Anything more serious meant a drive to the local town’s
clinic in the morning.
From time to time my father would send me to visit friends in other
parts of Africa. My stepmother Rosemarie had known Karen Blixen well
and, like her, had tried to grow coffee next to her farm in Kenya:
both learnt from bitter experience that their farms lay too high
to succeed. I had read all Blixen’s books and dreamt of emulating
her writing and adventures. I criss-crossed Africa, saw many strange
and wonderful sights, and indeed had many unforgettable experiences.
One of my most memorable journeys in Africa was a trip I made from
Cape Town to the farm in Mozambique.
My father had sent me the air ticket to arrive in Mozambique in
time for Christmas 1962, but I was so enjoying Cape Town that I cashed
it in to finance a longer stay. Come December I realised I would
have to make plans. I discovered that the cheapest way to travel
in Africa was by native bus. Timetables were very flexible but there
was a route roughly in the direction I was heading. The problem was
that this bus was for Africans, not whites. I decided that my only
hope was to pretend I was a “Cape Coloured”, the name
given to local people of mixed race. Many “Cape Coloureds” had
pale eyes, even blonde hair, but I was taking no chances. I dyed
mine black and lay in the sun to get a dark tan. I packed all my
possessions in a large, grey tin trunk, and, with food for just three
days, I set off. As far as my family was concerned I was flying to
join them in three weeks’ time.
I convinced myself that my disguise was a success, though in retrospect
I doubt it. Suffice to say that my fellow travellers were friendly
and when my food ran out, they generously shared theirs and refused
payment. I had plenty to read, studied the map and took photographs.
The bus stopped whenever it was hailed or a passenger wished to alight.
There were regular pit stops, but my terror of snakes caused me to
stay by the side of the road a short distance from the bus, discreetly
behind an open umbrella. My privacy was delicately respected.
My washing routine was minimal. Sometimes we stopped by a stream
and sometimes at a gas station. Streams were distinctly preferable.
At one gas station I befriended a monkey on a chain which promptly
bit my finger. I sucked the wound and ignored it. The next day I
knew from the pain in my underarm that I had a problem. I confided
in the driver (who had allowed me travel on the seat next to him
in the front) and he told the entire bus. This resulted in an avalanche
of advice and concern. I knew I had a fever and by the end of the
morning I was delirious. The next three days went by in a painful
haze. I was carried from the road through the bush to a village nearby.
My finger had swollen to the size of a marrow and I slipped in and
out of consciousness. I was treated with potions, unguents and gentle
hands. After four days it was decided I could travel and the bus
moved on. No one had seemed to mind waiting for me, and the faces
that greeted my return were the kindest I had seen. I felt strange
and weak for a number of days but ate and drank whatever I was told—somehow
I knew I was safe and in good hands. I tried to discover what treatment
I had been given—I was sure our doctor would have wanted to
know, but my “chief nursemaid” on the bus, Jama, just
shrugged, smiled, and said: “medsin”. My finger is still
misshapen and bears the scar.
A week or so later, I was in the bus studying the map and noticed
we were heading in the direction of Zimbabwe. I had heard much about
this famous ruined city built entirely of dry stone walls, and was
eager to see it. It was dark when we drove into a classical “one-horse
town” with a dirt main street lined by small buildings on either
side. The bus dropped me at the only hotel and all I could think
of was having a bath and washing my hair. I told the receptionist
that I had no money but that my father would surely pay. Without
blinking, she signed me in. An hour later, clean and changed, I headed
for the saloon bar. I entered a large room filled with about 50 blond,
bronzed, young men wearing crisp khaki shorts, shirts and long socks.
Had my fever returned or had I died and gone to heaven? I quickly
discovered that they were all farmers, special police or reservists.
Zimbabwe was an emotive name and they had been called up in case
of trouble during the next day’s elections.
What was I doing there? Well, I had come to see the ruins at dawn
before my bus left again for the north. To my disappointment I learnt
that the town was quite some distance from the fabled ruins of Zimbabwe.
But with 50 young Sir Galahads to hand, anything was possible. The
full moon was hovering large on the horizon, bright enough to spot
an ant crawling on a stone. I left town in a cavalcade of cars and
jeeps for the ruins of Zimbabwe escorted by the young farmers. I
climbed on the walls, listened to the legends and counted ants on
those precision-cut, ancient stones.
The next morning, I left on the bus as history was being made. The
Rhodesian Front Party, led by Ian Smith, was voted into power and
there began the end of Rhodesia, one day to be called Zimbabwe after
those ruins of a legendary civilisation.
When I finally arrived home my father almost failed to recognise
me with my long black hair and gaunt frame. I had lost about two
stone. When he learnt of my mode of travel and all that had transpired,
I thought flaying alive might be considered too good for me. In retrospect,
it is true I was fortunate that nothing more serious than a tetanus
infection marred my adventure.
I have since returned to Africa on a number of occasions, although
it was only eight years ago that I revisited Cape Town, this time
with my husband and two children. It had been 30 years since my “gap
year” and journey north posing as a “Cape Coloured”.
Table Mountain was elegantly covered by its habitual gossamer cloth
of mist, the sky was blue and New Year on the horizon. We visited
and tasted the excellent wines of Stellenbosch and I planted a tree
at Kirstenbosch, quite the most interesting and dramatically situated
botanical garden I know. We revisited my old haunts, I discovered
long-lost friends, and my husband proved his fitness by reaching
the top of Table Mountain ahead of his police escort. The children
and I shamelessly took the funicular car.
While the country’s political map had been redrawn, as far
as the rich culture and nature were concerned I felt that time had
almost stood still. Thirty years later, it did not disappoint: it
remained the world I had loved as a very young woman.
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